


Domestic Bliss

by beetle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets for DarkHaven's "Drabble My First Line Meme." Twenty and one half ficlets using Darkhavens' (at the time) twenty first lines, then another ten ficlets using my favorite of those first lines. So, thirty and one half ficlets in all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, Joss's.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Mild S5 BtVS spoilers, S2 AtS spoilers.

**Road Trip**  
  
Xander had been guilted into ferrying a rare book and a fractious vampire out to Angel in LA.  
  
"God, whelp, don't you listen to anything but crap?"  
  
Xander tried to hold on to his temper. "If you don't like my cds, then turn on the radio. Or pretend you're something not totally loathable, like a German Shepherd, and stick your head out the window."  
  
"Fuck you, Harris."  
  
"Only if you lobotomize me, first."  
  
"Short work, that. Once they managed to get a saw through that thick, oversized skull of yours."  
  
A beat.  
  
"I fuckin' hate you."  
  
"Feeling's more than mutual, believe me."  
  
A few miles later:  
  
"He knows she's dead, then?"  
  
"Wills drove up to tell him two weeks back."  
  
"Oh." Beat. "Won't be too pleased to see me, I reckon."  
  
"Is he ever? Is  _anyone_?"  
  
Another beat.  
  
"Uh... I think maybe I have some Guns 'N' Roses in the backseat..."  
  
"Just drive, donut boy. And shut up."  
  
  
 **Interlude at the Hyperion**  
  
It was the silences that made him think.  
  
Not that the silence of the Hyperion had increased, but the quality of the silence had...  _changed_  since Angel had left.  
  
Of course, the hotel was much less silent since the arrival of the Slayer’s friend and the vampire known as “Spike”.  
  
The two hadn’t stopped bickering at each other long enough for Wesley to inform them of Angel’s absense. Or to inquire as to the reason for this lovely visit.  
  
“ _Gentlemen_ ,” he finally interjected, with a pause that was rather too long to be called polite. “Why are you here?”  
  
“ _I’m_  here to see the poof. The why is none of yours, Percy.” Spike glared as if Wesley didn’t know he was currently incapable of doing damage to humans.  
  
“And  _I’m_  just here to drop off this book. And this bag-o’-useless.” The Slayer’s friend shoved the vampire forward. Spike swung on the young man, then collapsed to the carpet, holding his head and moaning.  
  
Xander chuckled. “That never gets old.”   
  
“I’m sorry to tell you this but Angel is no longer here and we’re - uncertain when he’ll return. I’m sure you’ll want to return the book and, er, Spike, to Mr. Giles’s capable care.”  
  
Xander’s jaw dropped. “No-no-no! I drove hours to get here - with an  _ungagged_  Spike - and, damnit, the book and the vamp stay here! End of discussion!”  
  
Wesley simply laced his fingers together and smiled.  
  
  
  
 **Patterns**  
  
Cold sweat, fear of monsters and a twinge of wildly inappropriate, swiftly stifled, forever-to-be-denied lust...  
  
The leit motif of Xander’s life. The pattern, if you will. Pure, simple and unchanged.   
  
Unlikely to change.  
  
“Can’t believe you let Percy end-run you like that!” Spike is laughing at him, as usual. “Not only do you still have the ars apocalyptica  _and_  yours truly, but he gave you the Spear of Grugnir to boot!”  
  
“Spike.”  
  
“Silly sod.”  
  
“Spike.”  
  
“If I hadn’t seen you cave with my own eyes -”  
  
“ _Spike_.”  
  
Something in that tone made Spike risk a wary glance at Xander, who was pulling the car onto the shoulder.  
  
“What, Xander?”  
  
Not whelp, or Harris.  
  
 _Xander_.  
  
“I may be totally off base here, but -” Xander flushed under his tan, but looked Spike right in the eye. With the saying of Xander’s name, the sneer and snark had seemed to fall away. Spike looked tired, lonely and so  _human_. “I mean -”  
  
Xander suddenly had a lapful - and mouthful - of Spike.   
  
Spike tasted like smoke and copper and regret and -  
  
\- and maybe patterns could be changed.  
  
  
  
 **After Careful Deliberation**  
  
It took awhile, but Xander finally found a way to break the pattern that was his lovelife:  
  
Fucking Spike.  
  
“Okay, admittedly a solution like that may  _feel_  better than it atually  _is_. Yeah...” Xander smiles, imagining the pouty, perfect lips and wicked, talented tongue -  
  
“Great. Now I’m sporting wood in a cemetery. And not the kind I can stake a vamp with. Well, maybe  _certain_  vamps - and since when am I cool enough with the man-lovin’ side of Xander that I can make jokes like  _that_?”  
  
The boneyard gloom offers no answers. Xander turns away from Spike’s crypt, really and truly meaning to go home, take a cold shower and read his mom’s Bible. Twice.  
  
“Pure thoughts, that’s the key.”  
  
Strong arms slide around his waist and Xander yelps. Then moans as a hard chest presses into his back.  
  
“You been out here muttering for an hour. Getting tired of waiting.” Cool puffs of air and a voice like sex caress Xander’s neck.  
  
“Spike -”  
  
“Got a pressie to give you, pet. Don’t you want it?” the voice purrs; accompanied by very naughty grinding.  
  
“Spike, we -”  
  
“Never thought I’d say this, luv, but you’re thinking too much. Stop it.”  
  
A cool hand is slipping into Xander’s cargo pants, past his boxers. Squeezing.  
  
“Yessir.” And Xander is going into a crypt to have sex with a demon.  
  
Pattern nicely broken.  
  
  
  
 **A Vampire's Love**  
  
“Spike, can I have a word with you in the kitchen?”  
  
Xander makes his way to the kitchen, leaving Buffy in Willow’s capable hands. When the door swings shut behind Spike - who’s already leering, bless his one-track mind - the vampire herds him to the back door.  
  
“Let’s go back to the Basement of Doom and get ‘groiny’ as you so quaintly put it.” Spike’s pushing Xander out the back door, one hand down his pants.  
  
“Spike - wait -  _Spike_!”   
  
Spike’s leer turns into a knowing frown. “You’re thinking too much again, luv. Thought I’d trained you out of that. Now that the Slayer’s back from Shangri-La or wherever you’re not gonna start some ‘let’s just be friends’ nonsense?”   
  
Xander lets out out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. “I was about to ask you the same thing, Spike.”   
  
“Told you, luv, you’re  _mine_. Have been since that bloody-awful trip to LA. I keep what’s mine.”  
  
“I don’t wanna be the consolation prize since you can’t have  _Buffy_. I want to be - “ Xander can’t say what he wants to be. It’s scares him.   
  
“Want to be my only? You are, pet. Want to be the one I think about when I wank? You  _are_  that, believe me.” Spike smiles gently. Xander doesn’t think any of the other Scoobies have ever seen this smile. That thought makes him bold.  
  
“M-maybe I want you to love me.”  
  
Spike goes very still against him, no longer doing that sexy shimmy-thing he does when he wants to fuck.  
  
“Are you ready for my love?" Spike slips into gameface. "A  _vampire’s_  love?” He lunges at Xander’s neck. Xander makes a strangled noise, trying to pull away, not relaxing even when Spike only nuzzles his neck before letting him go.  
  
Sparing a confused and frightened glance at Spike, Xander stumbles mindlessly up the porch steps. Towards the light, towards the Slayer.   
  
“Not ready yet, luv."Spike says softly. "But it was a nice thought."  
  
Then he’s gone, a dark blur disappearing in the balmy night air.  
  
  
  
 **Misdirection**  
  
“Tell me again what happened to your crypt, Spike.”  
  
“Who are you, my crypt insurance claims adjustor? Told you, already; there’s crawlies all over it. Some kinda demon cockroach-slug. Flies around trailing slime everywhere. Nasty. Crypt’ll be unliveable till the exterminator gets here.”  
  
The Slayer frowned at Spike, tiny, lethal hands on her hips.  
  
“I don’t know why you think you can hide stuff from me, but it amuses me when you try.” Buffy hurled Spike to the side and opened the crypt door. A deep, strangely accented voice drifted lazily out.  
  
“Spike,  _liebling_? Did you get the flavored lube? And the handcuffs?”  
  
The Slayer turned deathly pale and looked at Spike.  
  
“ _Flavored lube_? Who -?”  
  
“What? A bloke can’t have a first date? Don’t see where it’s any of yours, Slayer.” Spike pointedly squeezed his crotch.  
  
“You’re a  _pig_!” The Slayer glared and stormed off. Spike went into his crypt, shutting the door; he grinned at his ‘date’.  
  
“Luv... you’re a bloody genius.”  
  
“I try. So?  _Did_  you remember the flavored lube and handcuffs?”  
  
  
  
 **The Secret**  
  
Clem hates keeping secrets. They make him nervous.  
  
When Spike asks him not to tell the Slayer or any of her friends about taking one of their own as consort, Clem’s first reaction is to cringe and try to get out of promising.  
  
“And anyway, she’s the  _Slayer_ , Spike. Who’s to say she won’t  _sense_  it?”  
  
“If she senses it, she senses it. But don’t you go giving Special Edna any extra help, mate.”  
  
“Why not tell her now, get it out in the open. Better sooner than later, my gran used to say.”  
  
“Bugger your gran, Clem,” Spike says, almost gently. “We’ve got our reasons, Xan and I do. And you’re not to tell  _anyone_ , especially the Slayer. Got it?” Spike’s eyes are intense and cold; they’re the eyes of William the Bloody. Clem shivers.  
  
“Alright. But if she beats it out of me -”  
  
“Then all’s forgiven; but I doubt it’ll come to that.” Spike takes one more deep, ponderous drag on his cigarette before pitching it into the gloom of the cemetery. “ _Willie’s_  back room, wednesday night?”  
  
“Mordechai’s bringing all his tabbies.”  
  
“Correction: he’s bringing all  _my_  tabbies. I’ll see ya later, Clem.”  
  
“Bye, Spike.”  
  
Clem still hates keeping secrets.  
  
  
 **The Reason Doors Have Locks**  
  
“Xander?!  _Please_  tell me this is one of your lame-ass practical jokes.”  
  
“Oh, crap -”  
  
“Gonna fuck you so hard, pet, you’ll be color-blind when I’m done.”  
  
“Xander! Make him stop!”  
  
"Spike -"  
  
“Yeah, luv, tell me how much you need it.”  
  
“Spike -!  
  
“Xan...”  
  
“Xander!”  
  
“Buffy -”  
  
“Oh - for fuck’s sake, Slayer, either join in or get out. Me an’ the boy have some business needs takin’ care of.”  
  
“I - Xander -”  
  
“Out, Slayer, before you see somethin’ you oughtn’t.”  
  
Both Slayer and Vampire looked at Xander expectantly.  
  
“Buffster - put away the stake. And Spike -gah! We only do that when we’re  _alone_!”  
  
“ _Gross_!”  
  
“Maybe you should learn to  _knock, Buffster_.” Spike sneered at Buffy and didn’t stir himself from Xander’s lap.  
  
“Spike... don’t upset the prettiest, most best-est Slayer  _ever_  when she has a stake pointed at your, um -  _there_. I consider that part of your anatomy important to my continued happiness.”  
  
Buffy made a face, but lowered the stake.  
  
“Oh, get over it, Slayer.” Spike taunted.  
  
“Xander- I just came by to let  _you_  know there’s meeting at Giles’s in an hour... and you’ve got a  _lot_  of ‘splainin’ to do, mister!” The Slayer turned and marched up the basement stairs.  
  
Spike and Xander looked at each other.  
  
“At least you don’t have to be there for another hour, yeah? And what an hour we'll make of it, pet...”   
  
“You are - gah! - officially  _evil_ , Spike.”  
  
  
  
 **Meant to be Broken**  
  
  
“The rules are simple, really,” Buffy said when Xander took the proffered stake.  
  
“Always have a stake handy and don’t fuck around with demons. At what point did the confusion start?”  
  
Xander took a deep, but uncalming breath. They stood on Giles’s porch, just after nightfall. The Scooby meeting had degenerated into small-scale pandemonium when Xander straggled into the meeting out of breath - and thirty minutes late, thanks to Spike. He’d been instantly barraged with Willow and Giles’s not unwarranted concerns, then finally allowed to escape for some fresh air nearly one, tense hour later.  
  
“You know, I could ask you the same question.”  
  
Her eyes widened, then narrowed warningly. “ _Not_  the same thing, Xan.”  
  
“ _Kinda_  the same thing, Buff. Well, no. I can give  _my_  boyfriend a happy  _without_  him trying to kill me afterwards.” Xander snapped, and instantly regretted the hurt look in her eyes.  
  
“I just can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” She was suddenly in full Slayer-mode.  
  
“Ditto.” Xander stepped off the porch into the night. Behind him, Giles’s door slammed shut.  
  
At least he still had his trusty stake.  
  
  
  
 **A Moment of Reflection**  
  
I didn’t know I  _loved_  him... until I saw him like  _that_.  
  
Fall-down drunk, he was, barely hanging onto his stool at  _Willie’s_. Even for a human the boy can’t hold his liquor. It’s pathetic, really, seeing him so thoroughly pissed after just his third something-or-other-with-an-umbrella. Gotta admit - he’s the  _sorriest_  thing I’ve ever seen. Well, that Angelus hasn’t played with first, that is.  
  
He’s mashing up peanuts with a chipped ashtray, trying very hard not to cry over how the Scoobies're treating him lately. They treat him like the soft-headed sod he is, no doubt; smart enough to come in out of the rain,  _just_  stupid enough to fall in love with a vampire.  
  
When I still had my bite, I wouldn’t’ve bothered  _eating_  such a complete and utter git.  
  
“Spike... could we go home, now?” And those bleary, pretty brown eyes roll up into his head. I’m just fast enough to catch him before he slides to the floor.  
  
He’s a stupid git.  
  
But at the end of the night, I get to go home with him.  
  
  
  
 **Love’s Bitca**  
  
Xander woke feeling sore in odd places.  
  
“Spike... why was I asleep in the torture-chair?”  
  
“Didn’t want you puking on me or the bed, luv.” Spike sounds marvelously unconcerned about Xander’s discomfort.  
  
“Ah.” The only thing on Xander that isn’t thudding is his head. Too busy  _pounding_  to give good thud, alas.  
  
When Xander's eyes clear enough to permit sub-normal, hangover vision, he sees Spike reclining naked in bed, like an alabaster god. A god that was currently flipping through some seriously disturbing German porno mags - no doubt bought with Xander’s credit card.  
  
“Had to carry you outta  _Willie’s_  and all the way here, like some swooning bint out of a bodice-ripper.” Vivid blue eyes met Xander’s own. “Looked a right ponce, I did. The indignities I subject myself to for you, pet.” Spike went back to his porn.  
  
Xander mulled that over for a full minute, then held out his arms. His face tried for cute but fell short by several degrees of magnitude. “Carry me to the shower?”  
  
Spike rolls his eyes and sits up, tossing the skin mag over his shoulder.  
  
  
  
 **Showdown at the Doublemeat Palace**  
  
“Oi! Slayer! A moment.”  
  
“What do you want, Spike?” Buffy doesn’t look up from the batch of lard-soaked death-'taters she’s currently deep-frying.   
  
“Look - I know you’re not keen on the boy and I -”  
  
“His name is Xander.” Buffy’s lips are pressed together and pale under her lip gloss.  
  
“- _Xander_  and I bumpin’ wrinklies, but -”  
  
“You  _so_  don’t wanna go there when I’m wielding hot grease.” Buffy warns.  
  
“We’re  _together_ , Slayer. He and I. Since just after you - since last summer.”  
  
Buffy frowns. “Seven months?”  
  
“Six. Give or take two weeks and four days.”  
  
Buffy finally looks up at Spike, who’s busied himself with stealing from the take-a-penny cup on the counter. “Not easy for him, having you lot mad at him. Freezing him out.”  
  
“We’re not -”  
  
“It stops now. Learn to respect his choices or learn to do without him. But I won’t let you continue to hurt what’s mine.”  
  
As Spike strides off, Buffy realizes her fries are burning.  
  
  
  
 **Toads and Shovels**

“The first ring was a bracelet of bruises; a circlet of purple and green that lingered for days.  
  
“It was around his upper arm, just barely hidden by his t-shirt. It wasn’t the last. We were just four and I knew that not all parents were nice, right? But - I didn’t  _understand_  how some parents could hit their kids. Mine were barely around to hug me, let alone punish me like  _that_.  
  
“I promised myself that when I was strong enough, I’d never let  _any_ one hurt him again. And I  _will_  keep that promise. I don’t mean to be all, you know -  _grrr... argh!_  - and threatening violence, but I just thought you should know. I will beat you to death with a shovel if you ever make him cry. If he ever has a non-sweaty-fun-related bruise I will  _turn you into a toad_  then beat you to death with a shovel.  
  
“Any pain he suffers will result in you being beaten to death with a shovel, Spike. Are we clear?”  
  
Spike blinks at Willow who, after serving him hot chocolate and Fig Newtons in her dorm room, has delivered the shovel-speech/resolve-face Xander had mentioned.   
  
It was both shovel-y and resolve-y.  
  
“As Waterford, Red,” Spike says, knowing she’ll sense a lie, so not giving her one to sense. Even supposing he could escape the wrath of her shovel, Spike doubted a toad - even a vampire toad - would last very long on the UC Sunnydale campus.  
  
“Well... good.” The resolve-face resettles into something less threatening. “Now that that’s out of the way, we can move on to more pleasant stuff. Ooh! Like Friday night double dates! Do you like foreign films? The Orpheum is showing a movie Tara wants to see called  _Amelie_  -”  
  
  
  
 **Parallels**  
  
Every time they met, Giles’s eyes went first to Xander’s neck.  
  
He knows it makes the boy uncomfortable, makes Spike snarky and belligerent - in other words, has no appreciable effect - but he finds he can’t help himself. Observing and noticing parallels is in his blood, had been bred into him over generations.  
  
He observes Xander and in observing him, sees... parallels.  
  
There is tragedy in every loving glance that passes between them - Giles has no doubt that Spike loves Xander as much as the boy is obviously devoted to him - every possessive touch from Xander, every disconcertingly considerate gesture from the vampire.  
  
For Giles,  _every_  parallel is a miniature tragedy.  
  
Every new similarity that allows Giles to predict - with sadly growing certainty - the probable outcome of this relationship, breaks his heart. Resisting the urge to grab the boy and shake some sense into him is an exercise in self-control. He knows, oh, he knows, that youth cannot see the pitfalls in a love between two such fundamentally disparate natures, only sees the fleeting bliss.  
  
He also knows that such a love usually ends in subversion or death.   
  
Giles holds out no hope for simple subversion in this case. There is no evil in the boy and, despite his choice in lovers, there never will be.  
  
Thus, whenever they meet, Giles’s eyes will always go first to Xander’s neck. In Giles’s observation - in his  _experience_ , death of some kind is inevitable. Because of the parallels.  
  
It’s really only a matter of time.  
  
  
 **Alone Together**  
  
“It lived under the mattress.”  
  
Buffy looks up from the Magic Box’s inventory and at Xander. Things have been better between them over the past few weeks, though they’ve been careful to always have Willow and/or Giles there as insurance they’ll stay civil. Buffy hasn’t come to terms with Xander’s choice. Not like Willow and Giles have (despite the non-covert peeks at Xander’s neck).  
  
She and Xander have to relearn to be alone together.   
  
“What lived under the mattress?”   
  
“The scariest monster in the world. He was warty and smelled like our basement. And he lived under my mattress. I was four years old.”   
  
“Sounds like you coulda used a Slayer.” Buffy smiles a little. Remembering the grossness that was under-Xander’s-bed, she could see why any discriminating monster would prefer under-Xander's-mattress.  
  
“I got something just as cool. I got a Willow. The monster went away, not long after. Then, when the monsters were real, I got a Buffy and she made  _those_  go away,” Xander swallowed.  
  
“My Buffy didn’t make my Willow obsolete, just - made me feel even more safe and loved. Now, I’ve got a Spike... and my Willow and Buffy are more important than ever because I’ve gotten kinda used to feeling super loved and stuff, and - I’d hate to have to do without any of them.”  
  
Buffy didn’t know what to say for a moment, then sighed, the last of her anger replaced by fierce protectiveness.  
  
“Xander, I - as long as I’m alive, you will  _never_  be Buffy-less. I won’t  _ever_  stop protecting you from anyone or anything that threatens you, but I’ll - learn to be more respectful of your choices.”  
  
Xander’s smile - much missed over the past few weeks - is like a benediction.  
  
  
  
 **Versatile Solutions for Modern Living**  
  
Xander looks around at the various heaps of... things that had somehow managed to appear inside their apartment in the short hours he’d been out.  
  
“Uh... honey, I’m home,” he calls, stepping over an  _old_ -looking steamer trunk. The livingroom of their new apartment is a disaster of partially opened boxes, trunks and hastily stacked books that have William-ish overtones.  
  
“Spike?” Xander carefully makes his way to their bedroom; earlier that afternoon it had held nothing more than a new-ish futon. Now, Xander is in a Victorian paradise, complete with canopied bed and -  
  
“What the heck is  _that_  thing?” Xander wonders, standing in the doorway.  
  
“ _That_  is an  _armoire_ , luv.” Spike steps around Xander, stealing a kiss. “Was a time when no home was complete without one.”  
  
“Come ‘ere.” Xander pulls Spike close for another, longer kiss. “You did all this while I was gone? How -?”  
  
“Got connections, don’t I? Took some of my old things out of storage and got some new stuff that conveniently fell off a truck.” Spike grins.   
  
Xander chuckles, leaning his forehead against Spike’s. “I don’t wanna know, bleach boy.”  
  
“Probably better that you don’t. Anyway, sod all that and tell me what you think?” There’s a note of anxiety in Spike’s casual, don’t-give-a-shit voice.  
  
Xander walks them over to the bed. “I think I can’t  _wait_  for you to fuck me in this bed.”  
  
  
  
 **In the Kitchen With Xander and Spike**  
  
“I know you want everyone to know that you cooked...”  
  
“Mhmm.”  
  
“But isn’t this going too far?”  
  
“How so, pet?”  
  
“Well, okay - what does the apron say, Spike?”  
  
“It says 'bugger the cook'.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“...”  
  
“ _What_ , Xan?”  
  
“ _’Bugger_  the cook’!”  
  
“Oh, don’t mind if you do, luv.”  
  
“Uh..?”  
  
“Well, why the bloody hell do you think I bought this stupid thing?”  
  
“Uhm...”  
  
“Of course you take bleedin'  _hours_  to twig to it. Tosser. My subtle brand of ingenuity is utterly wasted on you - Christ! Xan - what -?”  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“What are you  _doing_?”  
  
“Should be pretty obvious -”  
  
“Oh, hell, luv -”  
  
“ - that I’m obeying the apron.”  
  
“At least the apron wasn’t - fuck! - a total waste.”  
  
“For future reference, I’m the only one who gets to see you in this apron.”  
  
“And out of it.”  
  
“Speaking of...”  
  
  
  
 **Fantasy #107**  
  
Xander stared blankly for a moment and then laughed.  
  
The pizza and beer fell to the floor forgotten. Spike’s leer turned into an arctic glare as Xander snorted and clutched his sides.  
  
 _What_  was so chuckle-worthy? Why, the bleached menace posing in Xander’s workboots, hard-hat, tool-belt and nothing else. Sexiness aside: Spike plus manual labor equals laughter-induced death for Xander.  
  
“Fine. Laugh it up, carpentry-boy. See if I ever indulge  _any_  of your fantasies again!” Spike stalked into their bedroom.  
  
What  _wasn’t_  so chuckle-worthy? The very interested twitch of Xander’s cock at the clumsily scrawled “ _drill here_ ”, complete with directional arrows - in case Xander somehow missed the single entendre - written just above Spike’s ass.   
  
The bedroom door slammed shut.  
  
 _Crud._  
  
“Spike? Sweetheart? Light of my life? Sorry..?”  
  
  
  
 **In Front of Company**  
  
“... I get home from work and she’s all packed and ready to go. Off to her momma’s to wallow.” Roy sighed.  
  
“Aw, jeez. I’m sorry, man.” Xander patted his friend’s shoulder.  
  
“Like my daddy always said: women ain’t nothin’ but trouble with a capital T.”  
  
“A little secret: men are no prizes, either,” Xander muttered, remembering Spike’s pointed silences throughout the evening.  
  
“ _Oi_ , tosser! I heard that!” Came from the kitchen, followed by Spike with a beer in one hand and a bottle of Jack in the other. He handed Roy the beer with a tiny bit of a smile, not noticing when Roy thanked him. All Xander got was a narrow look that neither human could interpret. Then Spike strode into the bedroom, shutting the door. Almost immediately, the  _Sex Pistols_  began blaring at top volume.  
  
The two men exchanged a look of total commiseration, then Xander shrugged.  
  
“That time of the month?” Roy mouthed with a grin.  
  
Xander returned the grin ruefully. “Something like that.”  
  
  
  
 **The Letter**  
  
The letter spent two days locked in the top right hand drawer of the desk before Spike confronted him about it.  
  
“I know it’s from Drusilla, luv. I can smell her like she was here in the apartment.” Spike says into the utter dark of their bedroom.  
  
Xander’s heart-rate picks up but the sigh is one of pure relief.  
  
“There was a phone number; that’s it. Somewhere in Seattle. 425.666.0136 ext. 13.”  
  
“Gee. Think whoever it is is evil?”  
  
Xander’s laugh is strained. “He went to evil medical school, anyway. Dr. Cranston Alhazred. The voicemail says he’s a thauma-neurologist.” A rustle that was Xander turning in his arms, warm face suddenly pressed into Spike’s shoulder. “Some kinda magical brain doctor, isn’t he?”  
  
“Think so, pet.”  
  
“How does she  _know_  you’re chipped?”  
  
“Miss Edith? Angel? The stars? This is Dru we’re talking about... I didn’t tell her.”  
  
“I know, Spike.” A tense pause. “I think you should go for it. I should have told you as soon as I got the letter.”  
  
“What else did it say, pet?”  
  
“Other than our address, the only other writing was ‘to my darling grand-childe, love, grandmummy’. Your ex is a freakin’ loon.”  
  
“Yeah.” Spike’s arms instinctively tighten around Xander, who relaxes at last. He’s half asleep when he mumbles: “I’m going with you.”  
  
 _Grand-childe_...  
  
Spike shudders.  
  
  
  
 **Things to do in Seattle When You’re Dead**  
  
Now the chip was history, it would be so very simple to install himself as Master of Seattle.  
  
They’d kill every person in this motel. Spike wanted nothing more than to watch his gorgeous childe slip from room to room like death incarnate. Starting with the idiot currently pounding on the adjoining wall behind the bed, yelling, “Hey, homos! Keep it down!”  
  
Then they’d find and kill the current Master of Seattle, some ponce named  _Vittorio_ , of all things. Once that’s done, they’d start their own nest far from Sunnyhell.  
  
He’d miss this warmth, of course. Being in Xander’s body is like fucking a velvety-tight furnace. Spike knows that he’d never have that again. He growls in frustration, shifting into gameface.  
  
“Now, Spike...” Xander’s eyes meet Spike’s even as he bares his throat.  
  
“Can’t, love. I can’t.” Spike is thrusting on auto-pilot, now. Has to bury his face in Xander’s neck if only to hide from the soul that shines out of those eyes. It’s coincidence that his fangs rest just over Xander’s jugular.  
  
“’S okay... I’m - ready for your love, and - it’s  _okay_... I  _want_  you to.”  
  
“I do and you’re gone. Nothin’ left but a demon that looks like you. I  _can’t_.” The one flaw in Spike’s favorite fantasy.   
  
Xander cradles Spike’s head and bucks forward, driving Spike’s fangs home.   
  
He should’ve fed before they got into it. Xander’s blood, this close, this  _attainable_  is too much, too much. One tiny trickle and Spike  _cant_  stop. He’s weeping as he comes.  
  
And Xander whispers his love as Spike leads him into darkness.

 

**Unlife in Seattle**  
  
 **Domesticity**  
  
“Now, the chip was history! It would've been so very  _simple_  to install himself as Master of Seattle! But he just  _won’t_! He’s so - lethargic and mopey.  
  
“God, and he hasn’t even fucked me since I rose - yeah, but - I know, I know it’s a period of adjustment for me, too, but you don’t see me grousing, not eating - staring off into space like I’d lost my best friend!  
  
“And he used to be so sexy and cool! When we’d fuck, sometimes, he’d say, “come, pet,” in that voice and I’d just -  
  
“Oh, okay - but don’t call me back till after nine, man. Yeah, nighttime minutes. ‘Kay. Yeah, Clem. . .’kay, laters.”  
  
Xander shuts off his cellphone and turns to face his silent, brooding Sire, who’s watching scrambled rugby on their motel room tv.  
  
“Sire? Spike? Sweetheart? Take me hunting?” The pout is pure Xander, but -  
  
“You’re not him. Fuck off and leave me be.”  
  
\- said without even looking up from the tv. Not even as his Childe slams out into the wet Seattle night.  
  
  
 **Conflict. Resolution.**  
  
The letter spent two days locked in the top righthand drawer of the desk before Spike confronted him about it.  
  
Confront, however, is too mild a word for picking his Childe up by the throat and throwing it across the room. Either the wall or it’s back goes  _crunch_.  
  
“What the fuck do you mean by getting letters from this  _Vittorio_  ponce? Has he had you?” Spike demands, balling up the letter, hurling it at his sullen, glaring Childe. Seeing hatred in those big dark eyes, where love and humor used to be, only makes him angrier.  
  
“Do I  _smell_  particularly well-fucked to you -” a pointed, insolent sneer. “ _Sire_?”  
  
“You smell like an idiot about to be dusted!” In a second, Spike’s across the room and lifting his Childe, this -  _thing_ , by the neck. Pinning it to the wall, seeing the fear and arousal in it’s dark eyes; wanting nothing more than to kill it.  
  
The air is rife with both their pheromones.  
  
“Sire. . .please. . . .” Spike’s Childe begs hopefully. Though it obviously expects nothing more than the beating of it’s young unlife. That’s all Spike has ever given it.  
  
Turning his Childe to face the wall, Spike surprises them both, that night.  
  
  
 **Afterglow**  
  
Xander woke feeling sore in odd places.  
  
It takes him a moment to recall what had happened, and when he does, he’s afraid to move, afraid the room temperature body at his back will be a dream.  
  
“Know you’re awake.” That lazy, sexy drawl melts Xander’s bones. He rolls over, finding himself nose to nose with his Sire, the one he loves and fears above all others.  
  
He wants very badly for Spike to kiss him.  
  
“You’ve been out the whole day and some of the night,” Spike murmurs mere millimeters from Xander’s lips, then sits up. “Brought you a pressie.”  
  
Xander sits up and follows Spike’s line of sight. Laying on the floor of their motel room is a semi-conscious fratboy.  
  
“Haven’t been feeding like you ought. That stops now.” Spike is standing, scratching his stomach, walking to the bathroom. “Eat that, get your strength up; we’re going hunting tonight.”  
  
Xander smiles as the bathroom door clicks shut.  
  
The fratboy dies screaming.  
  
  
 **Mercy**  
  
It was the silences that made him think.  
  
Probably why his idiot-Childe yammered on so damn much about anything and everything that crossed it’s microscopic little mind.  
  
“You have that sexy, British-guy thing going on, you know? Like Jude Law, or Captain Picard,” Spike’s Childe had panted one night. Spike had rolled his eyes and kept fucking the brat into their crimson-stained carpet; unlike his Consort, his Childe needed no oxygen. It could, theoretically, talk forever.  
  
“One of these nights I’ll rip your tongue right out, pet,” Spike muses aloud, as his Childe talks ceaselessly through yet another football match.  
  
His Childe looks at him, not in the least afraid, then goes to it’s knees and proceeds to suck Spike’s brain out through his cock.  
  
Theoretically, it could suck forever.  
  
In a silence broken only by enthusiastic slurping and swallowing, Spike thinks he may let the brat keep it’s tongue after all.  
  
At least for tonight.  
  
  
 **Hunting the Hunters**  
  
The rules are quite simple, really:  
  
Heed your Sire. Do as he commands.  
  
These rulemakers? Not really counting on how insane your Sire may have gone from grief.  
  
The frat-rat Spike brought back to our, ahem, lair - can you imagine? Our  _lair_  is a cheap motel room that doesn’t even get Skinemax - was the first insanity. He’d picked the jerk because he’d been raping and murdering girls at his college.  
  
The frat-rat wasn’t the last. Nope. There was the guy who drowned his wife, the woman who poisoned her mother - these are the people we feed on.  
  
 _Hunting the hunters_ , Spike calls it.  
  
Protecting a soul I no longer have, is what I call it.  
  
I mean, what does he want from me?  _Why_  does it matter who we kill?  
  
“Come on, pet. He’s on the move.” Spike glances at me, looking disturbed and vaguely disappointed, as usual, then takes off down the alley.   
  
“No amount of Yoda-ing is gonna change what I am, Sire,” I mutter, walking back the way we came. Even if Spike hears me, I’m not  _him_ , so he’s not  _listening_.   
  
And he sure as hell isn’t trying to stop me from leaving.  
  
  
 **Absent**  
  
“Xander, please tell me this is one of your lame-ass practical jokes....”  
  
Been muttering that for hours, now, because I promised. . . .  
  
I lost his scent an hours ago, but I know the places he haunts. The arcades, the movie theaters, the bowling alley -  _there's_  a case for a person’s tastes not changing when they get turned - but there’s been no sign of him. None of the many friends he cultivates in these places - the boy has the common touch, losing the soul hasn’t changed that - have seen him all night.  
  
It’s my fault he’s gone.  _I_  turned my boy then left him to twist in the wind.   
  
Frustration drives me back to the motel hours before dawn. Everything’s just as we left it. Neither of us is a homemaker and the room is utterly trashed, papers and clothing laying everywhere. The dent where I threw him against the wall -  
  
Suddenly, I know.  
  
Where my Childe’s at, who has him. . . probably not against his will, either, I’ve been such a piss-poor Sire.  
  
I stalk over to the dent and poke around the detritus under it till I find cream-colored, ponce-quality paper. I uncrumple the letter. There’s an address and a fancy bit of scrawl at the bottom.  
  
 _Vittorio_.   
  
It may be a trap, it may be  _too late_ , but he’s my Consort, my Childe, my beloved.  
  
I  _promised. . . ._    
  
  
 **The Silken Cage**  
  
Cold sweat, fear of monsters and a twinge of inappropriate, swiftly-stifled -  
  
“Xander. . . .”  
  
-  _forever_  to be denied lust.  
  
These are Xander-flaws totally independent of a piddling  _soul_.  
  
When Spike let me walk off, I really hadn’t expected the night to end the way it had; the burst of rainbow-colored magic, the unconsciousness, the manacles and satin sheets I’d woken up in. Least of all the kabuki-white body of the Master of Seattle looming over me.  
  
Fucking me.  
  
It’s been three nights, now, of being chained and fucked whenever  _milord_  gets a stiffy. Which is, unfortunately, often.   
  
I’ve resigned myself to the fact that Spike’s not coming to save me like I'm ‘some silly bint in a bodice-ripper’ but it still hurts. Dunno why; all I have to do is become Vittorio’s Consort and my unlife’ll be nothing but satin sheets, Playstation2 and hot-and-cold running victims. Not to mention hourly fucking -  
  
Damnit, Spike’s  _never_  coming for me! I got what I deserved! This is what happens when stupid Childer disobey their Sires.  
  
My fault,  _all_  my fault. . . .  
  
“So beautiful, Xander.” Vittorio’s fangs graze my neck lightly. His body’s still warm from feeding. I haven’t eaten in four nights and he burns like fire, on me and in me.  
  
 _Please come get me, Sire -_  
  
“So very sweet and  _human_.” One sharp bite and one hard thrust that tears something in me. I close my eyes before the tears fall.  
  
 _Spike -  
  
Sweetheart -  
  
Please -_  
  
  
 **What He Needs**  
  
I didn’t know I loved him until I saw him like that.  
  
Lost-looking in whore’s-red satin sheets, silent and still as I unlock his manacles. I’ve never seen him look that way, before or after turning him.   
  
“Pet, are you alright?” I smooth his damp hair away from his face. His wrists are chaffing, bruised, bloody. He’s bruised and bloody in lots of places. Must’ve put up a hell of a fight.  
  
My Childe.  
  
“He’s dead, luv.” I ignore the din that’s half of Vittorio’s court, dying in the main room of this abandoned warehouse. The dark eyes I’d thought were empty because of the missing soul are deep pits of absolute nothing, now. He doesn’t  _smell_  like mine anymore. He smells like a can’t-be-dead-enough ponce who  _thought_  he could take what’s mine.  
  
I know what he needs. Whether I’m ready to give it - whether he’s able to  _take it_  -   
  
“Xan, listen to me,” I command. Those eyes drift to mine, unfocused, unrecognizing. “You’re still mine, hear me? And I’m yours. Your Sire, your lover.  _Yours_. It’s time for you to take what’s yours, luv.”  
  
Those dark, empty eyes are suddenly focusing intently on mine, then I’m being tackled down onto the bed and pinned with more strength than I would’ve expected. I hear, but barely feel, my jeans being ripped off. Then he nuzzles my throat gently. Something wet drips on my neck.  
  
“Sire, please. . .let me.” Hoarse voice and cold puffs of air against my skin.  _All_  of him is cold. Vittorio’s been starving him, trying to break him.  
  
I wrap my arms and legs around him, whisper his name for the first time since I turned him. Dunno which’ll hurt better, his fangs or his cock, but I know I love him. My Xander. My own.  
  
Always has been.  
  
Always will be.  
  
  
 **Tandem**  
  
“I get home from work and she’s all packed and ready to go!”  
  
“He told me to get my stuff and get out, Jerry! What was I s’posed to do?” The screaming woman with the flaming red hair and receding chin launches herself at her boyfriend’s mistress. The ensuing catfight is clumsy and somehow sad.   
  
“Bloody hell, luv. Isn’t that your mate?”  
  
“Hmm?” Xander doesn’t look up from his job of painting Spike’s toenails. The color is  _Morte_ , but Xander just calls it black.  
  
“What’s-his-name - uh, Ray, Ron -  _Roy_. Roy Baker. Came over for dinner that time,” Spike says, turning Xander’s head to face the tv once more. Watching his women fight is a tall, hillbilly-looking drink of water with dirty-blond hair and smug grey eyes. Xander grunts and returns his attention to Spike’s toes.   
  
“Oh,  _that_  fucking guy. He’s a shit to his girlfriends. If I was one of ‘em, I’d have cut his balls off in his sleep. Stop wiggling or you’ll have black toes.”  
  
“Well, stop tickling and I’ll stop wiggling, pillock.”  
  
They go back to their respective tasks of polishing and viewing. The only sounds are a large audience member berating Roy and heavy, Seattle rain hitting the room’s single window.  
  
“I hate the fucking rain. Let’s move.” Xander blows Spike’s toes dry then kisses them.  
  
“Like you bloody read my mind, luv.” Spike turns off Springer and tackles his laughing child to the bed.   
  
  
 **Road Trip II**  
  
Xander stared blankly for a moment, then laughed.  
  
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, Spike!”  
  
Spike kicks the DeSoto’s tires. “Serious as a heart attack, pet. This baby’s gonna get us all the way to New York City.”  
  
“Doesn’t look like it’ll get us to the end of the motel parking lot, Spike, let alone the Big Apple.” Xander crosses his arms and leans against the driver's-side door. Spike paces around the car, examining it critically.   
  
After driving his Uncle Rory’s POS, Xander knows a lemon when he sees one.   
  
“This monster’s been mine  _decades_  longer than  _you_  have, you know?” Spike grins over at Xander from the other side of the car.  
  
“Yeah, pointing out how many decades you’ve had it? Not exactly instilling a sense of confidence in it’s reliability, bleachy. Not at all.” Xander looks down at his shoes and doesn’t feel jealous of a car.  _Especially_  not a  _DeSoto_.  
  
Not at all.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Spike’s reclining on the hood of the car, back against the windshield.  
  
Totally naked.  
  
“I’ve never been fucked on the hood of a DeSoto before. Be a nice way to re-Christen her. Make her  _ours_.” Spike muses, giving Xander a leering once-over.  
  
“What do you say, whelp? Fancy a ride?”  
  
And just like that, Xander’s  _so_  not jealous of this wonderful,  _wonderful_  DeSoto.  
  
Not. At. All.  
  
  
 **Messenger Boy**  
  
Clem hates keeping secrets. They make him nervous.  
  
So it’s something of a relief when he can give the letter to the Slayer.  
  
She reads it once, eyes wide and disbelieving, then reads it again out loud. Finally, she tells Clem to stay put, which he does. He's really not interested in getting a ‘Slayer-sized arse-kicking’. Not if half of Spike’s complaints are true.  
  
The Slayer’s friends arrive. Willow looks wan and worried, Tara nervous. The ex-Watcher, Mr. Giles, looks old and tired.  
  
The Slayer reads the letter to them, her voice cracking with anger. Mr. Giles takes the letter from her before she finishes. Reads it himself, frowning. Willow starts crying, and Tara holds her tightly, eyes bright with unshed tears.  
  
“When did you receive this?”  
  
Clem starts at the ex-Watcher’s voice.  
  
“He told me to give it to you three days after I got it.”  
  
“‘He’ who?” The Slayer looks like she wants to hit him. Despite her past kindness to him, Clem has no doubt she would if it meant getting information about her friend.  
  
“Xander. Said he wanted to be far away when you guys found out he was - you know. A vampire.”  
  
“I’m  _so_  gonna make Spike the kind of dead that’s permanent. Tara - you do a another locating spell, Giles -”  
  
“Uh -” Clem interrupts the Slayer. All eyes in the room turn to him. “He, uh, sounded really happy, you know? Said he was sorry for worrying you guys, but he can’t have you trying to find them. That the spell that’s been hiding them from you - they got it from a ‘caster at  _Wolfram & Hart_. Let me tell you, when those lawyers hide something, it  _stays_  hidden.” Clem nods sagely.  
  
But the Slayer and her friends are already ignoring him, talking spells and research. It’s as if Clem isn’t even there anymore. But he understands. Humans only hear what they want to hear.  
  
Just the same, Clem thinks it’s time for him to take a nice long vacation. Somewhere a little less Hellmouthy. Like Cleveland. . . .  
  
  
 **After This Brief Message. . . .**  
  
 _Xander had been guilted into ferrying a rare book and a fractious vampire out to Angel in LA -_  
  
That’s kinda how it all started. With a stupid road trip neither of us wanted to take. To this day, I don’t know why Giles trusted us with something as rare and valuable as that funky old book.  
  
I don’t know why I said yes and I don’t know why Spike tagged along. It’s enough that we wound up together.  Stayed together. I’ve known for awhile that he was it for me. That there could be no one else and that if he ever died - so would I. As I am currently what you might call living impaired, I know for a fact that Spike feels the same way.  
  
Before you guys freak out, no, I’m not just taunting you with the news before I come to hunt you all down.  
  
Or am I?  
  
Okay, seriously, I’m not. I just wanted you guys to know that I’m okay, that I’m - I’m happy, is what I am. I love my Sire and I love my unlife. I don’t miss the soul so much, though Spike does. Maybe one day I’ll get some wizard to mojo me up a soul as a present for him.  
  
But probably not.  
  
We’re only eating bad guys, yay us! You’d think there wouldn’t be enough truly evil humans strutting around to keep two vampires in blood and stolen cash, but - you’d be wrong.  
  
Anyway, this letter is getting ramble-y. I just wanted to touch base with you guys, let you know I’m doing good. Not literally, just, you know, metaphysically.  
  
Metaphorically?  
  
Spike and I are gonna disappear and stay disappeared for a decade or two, give you guys a chance to mellow. Twenty years from now, around Yuletime, you could get a knock on your door and surprise! Two vamps in Santa-hats - okay, one vamp in a Santa-hat, and one in a duster - bearing gifts!  
  
And I promise, if you invite us in, we won’t try to eat any of you.  
  
Till then, lurve yas,  
  
Xan


End file.
